Eternal Sunshine of a Deleted Mind
by Warrior0fstarclan
Summary: What would happen if Sherlock deleted John out of his mind? Then John with a new technological breakthrough decided to do the same?
1. Prologue: Wake

John blinked himself awake against the piecing sun that broke through the curtains he groaned in pain and rubbed his eyes with the back of his palms, it felt as if someone had just run a lawnmower over his head and then sat on it for multiple hours, he couldn't remember the last time he had got a migraine like this one. Sitting up groggily he looked at the clock, he breathed a sigh of relief noting that he still had an hour or so to get ready until work.

He stretched his stiff limbs, his vision still paying the price for his aching headache, he must of drank a lot last night, or presumed he did. Where ever he got the funds for alcohol or why he was drinking it was a mystery; especially since his sister and father had already proven fine examples of moronic alcoholics. It must have been one of his friends birthdays, that was the only logical answer.

Finally able to get his mind off his headache, he unfortunately now has his mind direct it towards the now sharp pang in his leg. John pulled off the bed sheets to observe the leg more closely, the wound on it reached all the way down to his heel where clumsy sewing ensured a most prominent infection; the effort was clumsy and shaky so John took a mental note to fix it up after his shift. He wondered how it happened; it looked like he was dragged through barbed wire or had a machete sliced through his tendons.

Swinging his legs off the bed now, fully awake from the pain, he crossed his room and grabbed out his uniform trying to put the pain to the back of his mind. He decided the first thing he should do before anything else was eat and maybe then the pain would cease, proper personal grooming not being an option as he combed his hair with his fingers as he paced to the kitchen.

"I could eat a horse right now," he muttered to himself, biting his lip as he reached for the cornflakes that were inconveniently high up on the top shelf where he had to stand on his toes to reach. There was no milk left either so he had to settle for the dry option and despite this he still hungrily spooned cornflakes into his mouth.

Ravaging the entire bowl in less than a minute, he appreciated the contents that now filled his stomach. It was going to be a long day today; the doctor felt his phone vibrate violently in his pocket. Reaching in there to grab it he pushed the empty ball away and started to line up his medication he was going to take for this blasted headache.  
"Doctor Watson?" the voice was a woman's, unmistakable Clare, his sister's ex-girlfriend, she had took a secretary job ironically the same week John had done four years earlier when he came back from Afghanistan.

"Speaking."  
"You double booked on the roster sir," John tried to suppress the grin that was spreading on his face, it never got old having this woman have to speak to him like a superior, she had always annoyed him.  
"You booked for ward nine and ward four," she went on, sniffling into the receiver, "doctor Stamotoplis is suggesting that you take ward two though, emergency is lack luster on staff at the moment."

John thought about it for a moment, he felt like being kept busy and maybe helping in emergency, the horror of all horrors, would redeem his pride from yesterday's drinking fest.

"Ward two sounds fine; sounds good."  
There was a brief pause after that, John could hear the rustling of the secretary as she typed loudly on her computer.  
"Got it- I'll let him know, thank you."  
Hanging up John picked up the ibuprofen tablets he strung out on the table and swallowed them; he hoped these could cover up some of the pain before he headed off.

"Hey Molly," the man took a sip of his tea as he walked into the hospital office, Molly Hooper a mortician with a child innocence about her, floated by the secretaries desk holding a clipboard to her chest and shyly waited for Clare to get off the phone, she acknowledged John with a small smile before dismissing the rudeness from Clare and walked towards him.

"Hey John, how did the procedure go?" she flicked her pony tail back onto her shoulder and slightly tilted her head. John uncomfortably shifted underneath her gaze and scratched at his arm. The last time he had given surgery was two weeks ago which was a bypass surgery for a woman in her mid-fifties.  
"Which one?" he let out a small chortle, "sorry, haven't been here for a week so my memories faint."  
"I take that as it worked."  
"Pardon?"  
"Don't worry." Her eyes now averted his as she sent a prolonged gaze to the floor, John confused just stared at her.

It was several moments before he noticed that the wound he has patched up terribly was bleeding profusely through his pants leg. Molly seemed to notice it too, "come with me then,"  
"Don't worry about it, the bleeding should stop soon."  
"Just a quick bandage up –"before the doctor could protest she grabbed his arm forcefully and dragged him at a quick pace, before he knew it he had landed in a room surrounded by casings of dead bodies due for autopsy.

Molly had brought out her first aid kit and was sterilizing her a pair of tweezers.  
"This is assuring," he let out an awkward laugh, trying not to be distracted by the fact he was sitting next to a real body in a black body bag, he would think that after being through a war and working in a hospital that he would of adapted to death but it still unsettled him. An entire life is in that bag, they had family, friends, a childhood, a story to tell, yet they were now just an ingredient to his story as he sat next to it. The dead body he sat next to whilst his butchered leg got fixed up.

"If you let this in to long your leg would have been amputated." Molly looked unnaturally serious as she pried at John's stitching.  
"Well there are more serious issues then my leg."  
"I don't think a lopsided doctor could exactly heal the sick."  
"Prosthetic legs,"  
"If monopoly money was currency, then you might be able to afford it."

She finished taking out the string and used a damp towel to dry off the excess blood, John cringed once more feeling the drugs he had taken earlier now running out.  
It was like dragging a cat through a sand pit on a rainy day with a ten foot string before the time Molly finished dressing his wound and covering it up. John felt the pain in his leg cease greatly now and stood up to test his weight on it, "thanks Molly, really appreciated."  
"Oh anytime, it's not a-" they both looked at the entrance to the room now, a stampede of footsteps occurred before the doors swung violently open, four men emerged, the lead man was taller then all three of his companions. He had an air of authority about him, his blue eyes found John's and for a split second John felt entranced, shaking his head he backed off as all four men shoved him out the way and surrounded the black body bag that John was just sitting next to.

The tall man grabbed the zipper and pulled it open, the grey haired man who was standing next to the taller one traced his finger across the nape of the dead man's neck, inspecting it closely with pursed lips.

"Yeah he's got it, this is our guy." The man took a step back before he looked over to see John watch this spontaneous chain of events, everyone in the room now was staring at him with relenting curiosity.  
"Oh, um, sorry…" he shuffled his feet and dropped his head before turning to go leave, "thanks again Molly."

Picking up his pace he found himself hurriedly pushing through the hallway to go to his ward, the looks of curiosity unsettled more then it should him for some reason, there was something that felt wrong about it all, it all felt like some messed up illusion.

"Doctor Watson!"  
Turning around the doctor let out a squeak, the taller man from before held out his hand at him, and John gratefully reached to shake it.  
"The names Sherlock Holmes, would you mind coming with me? I need some assistance and you're the closest thing to a doctor in radius."  
"Nice to meet you Mr. Holmes, but I have patients to attend to. I'm sure Miss Hooper will be as much-"  
"No." the mysterious man narrowed his eyes and recoiled as if John had just picked up a chair and smashed him over the face with it. "To dull, no I need someone different. You were in the army, so there should be less…." The man's face turned into an utter look of repulsion, "conversing."

The shorter blond eyed him suspiciously for a moment, army? How on earth could this man have known that? He kept it low key knowledge in the wards; as he was never one for promotion on personal history in the work place. However the man before him just stood unfazed, tapping his fingers impatiently waiting for John's response against his vibrant blue scarf. John stood there contemplating for a second before nodding, "Okay then, lead on." Walking in quick step behind him, little did he prepare for the events that were about to take place.

**Hope you guys enjoyed it~ I'm going to go through and edit some mistakes from time to time as I wrote this chapter when sleep deprived. Reviews are welcome. :3 **


	2. Chapter 1

He put his head in his hands; his heart was racing a million miles per hour. Everything had amounted to this, this final stage. In four years he had not cried, he was a soldier, crying was for the victims, for the manipulative and the dying. His first world problems were nothing compared to anyone else's, yet the narcissism that brooded the surface fought all reason, it was his fault, entirely his fault.

He was sitting in the middle of 221B legs clamped towards his chest, the room felt bare, his possessions packed in boxes and his duvets in suitcases, he had never felt this hollow before, the void that filled the pit of his stomach was as sharp as a knife and engulfed him in self depreciating sorrow. Next to him his steaming cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson brewed for him went cold; the landlady tried to comfort him, coo him, but left quickly knowing John wasn't listening. Maybe that was the problem, maybe John never listened enough.

Sherlock was now gone and John had searched for him for days, the feud they had was unlike any of their other domestics, he witnessed the rare sight of Sherlock fighting with emotion, instead of his cold demeanor. The pure hatred that sat in his eyes as he and John were yelling at each other and grappling on the floor as they fought…now they would never share a word with each other again. Sherlock had left and taken his stuff with him when John was at work, he could be across the world and John would never where or why, why Sherlock always ran away from his problems that didn't involve a dead body or a mystery to solve, why Sherlock cocooned himself in his own little world and left John to pick up the pieces that he had missed.

Why Sherlock deleted him without doubt or regret but desire.

The blonde man had received the information from Molly who had passed on the note, it was hand written by the consulting detective describing his departure from John forever. It read how Sherlock decided that it was best for his work to leave the doctor and start afresh with a new life, how John was a distraction and a nuisance and he wanted nothing more to do with him.

And now John sat here, alone like always, wishing for the detective to come back, the detective's brother Mycroft was bringing in men to pick up his things and move it to his new flat, making it even more real. The deletion memory technique was vital to Sherlock's work and was mastered to perfection; the doctor could never break through the solid barrier even if he knew the whereabouts of the man.

He was sick of feeling like this, he was sick of sitting in the middle of the floor over one man; he was utterly selfish and repugnant like any other broken couple. He and Sherlock had taken a massive risk, relationships were never the detective's area and relationships with men John had never experienced. Everything felt so wrong, so fucked up. He couldn't even give John an adequate reason to be angry, sure they fought a lot in the past months but John's loyalties never differ. Relationships were rollercoasters, and Sherlock jumped out of the carriage halfway through, leaving John stuck in what is now appeared to be a broken track, with the doctor hanging upside down and clinging onto the rails for dear life.

The soldier clenched his fists and glared at the floor, not taken notice of the racket of the men who now walked around him, he could catch faint snippets of a hand on his shoulder as it lead him to the black Sudan down stairs, it was like all the faces of the people around him were a grayish blur. He could feel his legs struggle to keep going forward as he reached the bottom step, that was the last time he would ever climb them, he wondered if Sherlock thought the same thing as he left John for the very last time, if he had the same feelings of 22B that John did.

Stepping outside into the afternoon sun, he could feel getting guided into the car a bit more roughly now, he could hear the sudan's door slam shut as he stared blankly at the carpet under his shoes. He could feel his phone chiming in his pocket but ignored it as he felt the car start to move forward, this was it, forever.

Blinking tears he faced the window and pressed his hand to his forehead, never again will he smell the dusty paint and the horrid stench of Sherlock's experiments as he walked through the door, never again will he taste Mrs. Hudson's freshly baked cookies as she chirped on with barely a care in the world, never again will he sit by the fire, book propped in his lap, with Sherlock's gently rhythm of the violin as he composed music in order to drive out the madness of not having a case to distract him from his train wreck of a mind.

Giving a final salute he felt the car pull off towards his fate.


	3. Chapter 2

"Are you deliberately being contentious or should I just cancel the whole thing together?"  
The building he entered after the car trip had a serene feel to it; Mycroft's henchmen had basically pushed him through the door and into the older man's office where Mycroft had sat caressing his umbrella in one of his musing poses.

There were collections of items that provided a reminder to John of Sherlock lying at his feet, piled into bin bags that were bursting under the weight. Every time he had been in here he had felt out of place, the expensive luxuries that Mycroft prided himself in, hey, if he ever cleaned out the room and sold it he could feed a third world country.

"Fuck off Mycroft."

"You've never been one to swear doctor," the man smirked nose twitching, making John clench his fists, he wanted this over and done with and this pretentious arse wipe was not helping him think otherwise.  
It was _his _fault when Sherlock had to fake his death and leave him, it was _his _fault that he had to constantly badger him and the detective making Sherlock have a hissy fit on a regular basis and it was _his_ fault that he never helped the detective have any bloody courtesy towards a break up.

He was the consulting detective's brother, he was meant to remotely take care of him sibling rivalry or not, they were kin, which had to mean something to Sherlock despite how stubborn he was, hell why did Sherlock delete John and not Mycroft if he hated him so much? Why did he have to take this burden?

"Well it's not every day that you erase six years of your life is it?"  
"I don't think this is a wise decision John."  
"Why? There's no point anymore, he looks straight through me Mycroft, not glance away, he didn't even give me the right to punch him! I put up with him for _six years,_" his voice was raising now, he could feel his adams apple bob up and down as he choked out the words.

"You have no clue what I have to go through every day, what I have to live with, this is a low even for Sherlock." He rubbed his hair back and sighed into the soft leather, the hollowness in his stomach was creeping at hip, little by little devouring him.

"There is," Mycroft paused for a moment, looking at his phones screen before clearing his throat again. "a reason most people do not possess this ability."

"Because it's impossible." He snapped a little more harshly then he intended.

"Memories define us John," he put down his umbrella and straightened his tie now, eyeing John thoughtfully.

"Surely you would have grasped that concept by now doctor; you're a medical practitioner, worked in the army treating the wounded. Patients with temporary or permanent amnesia wouldn't be an unusual occurrence to you especially from a battlefield. You know what they're like, you're acting on whim and emotion John, if you gave it sometime-"

"What would you know about any of this? For someone who is a supposed genius, surely you could post a better argument towards me than that."  
He just wanted to get it over with, sooner he forgot about Sherlock, the sooner he forgot about Mycroft and never had to speak to him again. He could settle down, get married and leave this miserable life behind him; he would have nothing to miss anymore.

"This is brain damage John, it's irreversible." For a brief second John could catch a glimpse of concern in the man's dark eyes, but it was brushed away quickly. Mycroft unlike Sherlock had a well-developed understanding of human interaction with its boundaries and complications even if he personally didn't quite take on the concept of human association himself.

John didn't know if that was due to his first class upbringing, the conditioning of his workplace or something else that reflected his general business like mannerism but John found it hard to imagine Mycroft out at social evenings that weren't necessary for his job.  
If he wasn't so pissed off at Sherlock he might have been more adherent to Mycroft's reasoning.

"You offered to help," John muttered, "If you're going to sit here and lecture me I'll find somewhere else."  
The man snorted and stood up. "You seem to under estimate my effiency doctor."  
The blonde haired doctor shrugged smugly before tracing his fingers over the arm of the chair. Mycroft wouldn't do that; he would respect John's wishes even if he disagreed with them. A curse of the Holmes family.

Mycroft looked unsure of himself at the moment when John meet his gaze with pure defiance in his eyes, John knew exactly right then and there what he would appear like to the man, a cold empty shell, a dead gaze on legs. John wasn't John anymore.  
"The company is called Lacuna."  
And now it was time to end it.


End file.
